Payback Time
by Jazzcat
Summary: Despite the good life that resulted from his time as a false substitute teacher, Dewey Finn has to deal with the consequences of his lies. And he can't do it alone. Can he build a bridge and repair a rift at the same time?


Dewey Finn was not usually a nervous man.

But tonight, he had every reason to be. Shoving hard at the handle of his ancient, well-used van, he grabbed the bouquet of peach, white and red carnations he'd purchased from a supermarket at the last minute and bailed out onto a concrete driveway.

Looming before him in the darkness, well-lit and neatly manicured, was the home of Rosalie Mullins – principal of Horace Green Preparatory School.

Staring at the small but pristine house situated in the middle of an upscale neighborhood, Dewey gripped the red and gold-striped tie and jerked it away from his neck. He hated ties enough as it was; tonight, it was choking him. Perspiration broke out across his forehead.

_Tonight's gonna be a disaster, I just know it._

Forcing one sneakered foot in front of the other, Dewey crossed the lush golf course-worthy lawn and stepped onto the curved flagstone walkway, flanked by perfectly-trimmed bushes and two lines of lights that reminded Dewey of an airport runway. He made the final turn and counted the steps up to the porch – _one, two, three, four_ – until he was facing Ms. Mullins' front door. And there he stood.

Dewey straightened up to his full height and cleared his throat. "Good evening, Miss Mullins," he practiced quietly in a deep, sophisticated tone. Then he frowned.

_Too… what's the word? Pretender-itious? Pretenda-something. Over the top, anyway._

Twisting his lips to one side, Dewey gave the door his best smile and tried again.

"Hello, Miss Mullins. Hey listen, I was wondering if you'd—"

Dewey scrunched his eyes shut. _Of course she will, genius. That's why I scheduled this date last week. It's not like she's dropping everything at the last minute to have dinner with me._

Just the thought –_dinner with me_ – made Dewey break out in a cold sweat. He scowled at the bouquet of carnations and baby's breath, suddenly thinking it looked shabby. In fact, everything about him looked shabby. He'd tried to dress up – really, he had – but he'd bought his navy-colored blazer, white short-sleeved dress shirt, and red and gold-striped tie at a second-hand store. Anyone could tell. His tan slacks were baggy, and not because he'd lost weight. Dewey Finn liked his britches loose and comfy. Not that he was planning any stage dives or fifteen-minute guitar solos during this date, but it was all he had.

Most of his School of Rock after-school program paychecks had gone into acquiring used music gear, van repairs and – of course – his share of the apartment rent. Even if he'd won the ten thousand dollars from the Battle of the Bands competition, he wouldn't have spent that money on a new wardrobe.

Now he regretted his wish to build a Marshall stack to the moon and replaced that wish for clothes that looked… halfway decent, at least. Clothes that wouldn't leave Ms. Mullins with the impression that he was about to take her to a second-rate pizza parlor.

Before Dewey could lose his nerve and bolt back to the van, he heard the lock click. He froze as the door cracked open.

"Dewey?"

The soft voice made the flowers in his clammy hand tremble. Then he forgot all about them as the door opened fully and Rosalie Mullins stepped into view: A tall, magnificent woman in a black dress, clutching a small black purse. Her russet hair was pinned back into an elegant French roll, except for twin curls that framed either side of her face, and conservative gold hoop earrings winked shyly at him from behind those curls.

Dewey's mouth went dry as his gaze traveled down her black dress. The dress itself was rather plain, with a simple V-neck, a shape that gently hugged her curves, and a skirt that ended just above her knees. She was absolutely stunning – a sharp contrast to the way _he_ looked. Next to her, Dewey felt like an awkward schoolboy. Abruptly he realized he was staring at her, and his panicked gaze fled to the flowers he still held.

_Say something, you idiot._

His throat instantly constricted so that he could barely draw a breath, let alone manage a hoarse, "Uhhhhh… hey, Prince—er, Miss… uhhh, Mullins." He gulped. "You look… really hot."

He flinched. _Oh that was slick, Dewey. Like, ten-years-old slick. C'mon, get a grip._

His scolding inner voice sounded alarmingly similar to Patty Di Marco, Ned Schneebly's black-haired harpy of an ex-girlfriend. Dewey grimaced again, then patched together a quick smile for the beautiful woman standing in the doorway.

He almost couldn't believe Ms. Mullins was smiling back at him. She actually looked a little flushed and pleased by the compliment.

"Thanks. You look great yourself."

Dewey glanced away. _You'll have to go to confession for that one, Ms. Mullins,_ he thought but didn't quip.

"Uh, thanks."

A tense silence descended over the porch.

"I was… that is," she pressed her gold-rimmed eyeglasses against the bridge of her nose and drew a shallow breath, "you're right on time." Her smile was very polite and principal-like, Dewey thought.

"Heh, miracles happen."

Her smile grew, and a spark of mischief illuminated her blue eyes behind her delicate glasses. "If only miracles would happen on schooldays," she said pointedly.

Dewey chuckled and shrugged. "Far as I know, miracles only happen on Saturday nights."

Ms. Mullins smiled at him again, and Dewey's knees turned to water. Her gaze fell to the carnations.

"Shall I… would you like me to put those in a vase?" she wondered with a trace of awkwardness. "Unless they're… not for me."

"Oh." Dewey looked down at the carnations. "Oh yeah! Here. I mean, yeah, these are for you." He presented the bouquet to her. "I thought the colors… sort of looked like gypsy colors."

Her eyes came back to his, and she tilted her head in puzzlement. "Gypsy colors?"

"Mhmm. Just like the song."

A slow, oddly charming smile curved over her unique lips. "In Stevie Nicks' song, the gypsy gets paper flowers," she reminded him. "But these are better. Wait right here, and I'll put these in some water. Thank you, Dewey."

She disappeared into the house.

A rush of air escaped Dewey's lungs, and he slumped over as he tried to remember how to breathe. Why was she going out with him, anyway? It wasn't their first date – technically, it was their second, though the first one didn't really count because Dewey had been out to manipulate her into allowing the schoolchildren to go on a "field trip." Actually, they just needed to get out of school long enough to try out for the Battle of the Bands roster.

After Principal Mullins – and everyone else in the entire school, from kids to parents to lowly janitors – learned that "Ned Scheebly" was actually Dewey Finn masquerading as a substitute teacher, Ms. Mullins had been furious. Dewey'd expected her to stay that way, especially after _another _field trip – this one involving a stolen school bus. She'd stormed backstage after the performance, and all the excuses had been on the tip of his tongue: _It wasn't my idea. The kids came and got me. What else was I supposed to do? It was all for the kids._

But she hadn't been furious. She'd been beside herself with excitement. Then, before Dewey knew it, Ms. Mullins created the after-school program now known as School of Rock. And she put Dewey in charge of it. And she'd supplied him with a healthy paycheck to teach the kids – and support his rock and roll habits.

Nevertheless, it had taken weeks for him to get up the courage to call and ask her out on another date.

Ms. Mullins reappeared at that moment. Dewey stiffened up and gave her his goofy signature grin.

"You saved me from having to knock," he commented as she closed and locked the front door. "How'd you know I was out here?"

"I thought I heard your van."

Dewey grimaced. "Oh… yeah. Well, I don't believe in mufflers."

His eyes widened when Ms. Mullins burst out laughing. It was a sweet and surprisingly wholehearted laugh, coming from a woman who was – at first glance – straight-laced and reserved and cool, calm and controlled. Beneath that unflappable exterior was… someone else entirely.

A half-grin tugged the side of Dewey's mouth. He looked forward to discovering more about this other side of Rosalie Mullins.

Heartened by her reception, he offered her his elbow. "Shall we go?"

Ms. Mullins' smile was decidedly shy as she slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. She had long, elegant fingers, Dewey noticed as they descended the steps and approached his old van.

Dewey loved that van: He'd had it since the Maggot Death days, and it had faithfully carted the rowdy band and their heavy gear from one gig venue to another. Although the van had almost a hundred thousand miles to its name, it hadn't failed him yet.

Mercifully, Ms. Mullins hadn't seemed the least bit squeamish about riding in such a decrepit-looking, smelly old vehicle the _first_ time he'd taken her out. But that was before she'd dressed up like a beauty queen. Dewey hesitated, then glanced sidelong at his gorgeous date.

"Um, Ms. Mullins. Would you like to take your car?"

She stared at him in genuine surprise. "Is something wrong with your van?"

"No, uh, nope. Just thought I'd ask before I took you for a whirl in Old Faithful."

Ms. Mullins gave him that butterfly-inducing mischievous smile again. "Did you bring your Fleetwood Mac CDs?"

Dewey Finn's heart suddenly lightened. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this night would be one to remember.

"Jump in and find out," he invited, grinning as she broke away from him and moved to the passenger side of the van.

Moments later, they were on the road. At Dewey Finn's remark – "My collection is yours to command" – Ms. Mullins had pounced on the CDs and rifled through them. Instead of choosing one of the cracked jewel cases containing the Fleetwood Mac music Dewey knew she loved, Ms. Mullins had surprised him again and fed his CD player with _Boston: Greatest Hits._

The first strains of _More Than a Feeling_ flooded the van, quickly gathering momentum.

"Turn it up!" shouted Ms. Mullins over the already loud music.

Grinning, Dewey cranked the volume dial as far as it would go. Boston drowned out the roar of the van engine.

_I looked out this morning and the sun was gone,_

_Turned on some music to start my day,_

_I lost myself in a familiar song,_

_I closed my eyes and I slipped away!_

Over the eardrum-blasting noise, Dewey gripped the cracked leather steering wheel and grinned at Ms. Mullins, who – like Brad Delp, the lead singer for Boston – was losing herself in the familiar song. Her hands came up, and she swayed and grooved and bobbed her head with carefree abandon and a smooth, regal grace. Dewey made dramatic faces at her while the skull head on the dash bobbed wildly. Boston veered into the chorus, and both Dewey and Rosalee Mullins hollered out the lyrics for More Than A Feeling as the van carried them down the road.

_It's more than a feeling,_

_More than a feeling,_

_When I hear that old song they used to play;_

_More than a feeling,_

_I begin dreaming,_

_More than a feeling,_

'_Til I see Marianne walk away;_

_I see my Marianne walkin' away!_

They glanced at each other, alternating lines, shouting the ending together. Then they were laughing in the exhilaration of the moment.

A warm, airy feeling spread through Dewey Finn's chest. Rosalie Mullins was caught up in the song, and he couldn't stop watching her. What an incredible woman! At school, she managed Horace Green with the expertise and dignified composure of a high-powered CEO. Yet here she was, dressed for a date yet fit for the prom, and she moved with the music and closed her eyes and laughed and didn't seem to care whether her precarious French roll came loose.

Rosalie Mullins was a woman who knew how to have fun.

Miraculously without crashing, Dewey brought the van into the parking lot of a fine Italian restaurant. He waited and left the engine running while Boston finished Hitch A Ride before he twisted the key and killed the ignition. In the sudden quiet, he smiled at his date.

"I hope you like Italian, Ms. Mullins."

Leaning closer, she touched his arm, her steady gaze paralyzing him in the driver's chair. "It's Saturday night, Dewey. I left 'Ms. Mullins' behind my school desk. You can call me Rosalie."

Dewey covered his gulp with a grin. "Sure… Rosalie."

He nodded his head toward the restaurant, shoved open the door, and exited the van. Rosalie joined him a moment later, and for the first time, she looked up at the building in front of them. The colored lights from the signs and windows reflected off her eyeglasses.

"Butera's?" she asked, reading the sign.

Dewey's gaze snapped to her face. Rosalie looked surprised.

"Um, yeah. Ever eaten here before?"

She drew a breath, then slowly smiled. "Twice. Both times, I was here because of a school district luncheon meeting."

"Oh." Dewey racked his brain, not entirely understanding her reaction. "It'll be my first time," he admitted. "Is the food good?"

"Yes." She clutched her black purse nervously. "Just… it might be a little spendy for your budget, if you know what I mean."

Dewey gave her a lopsided grin. "Don't even think about it. It's my treat. That is, if you're in the mood for Italian… whatever they serve here."

She hesitated, her gaze shifting back to the sign. "Oh, yes, Italian's good. It just wasn't what I was expecting."

Dewey's smile collapsed. "We don't have to eat here," he said.

Rosalie blinked at him. "Don't you have reservations?"

"You bet. I set them up in advance." Dewey didn't tell her that he'd booked them two weeks ago – several days before he'd even gotten up the nerve to call her. "But we can cancel. No biggie."

"No, no, it's fine," she protested. "You don't have to go to any—"

"Rosalie." Dewey stepped in front of her, taking both her hands – and, inadvertently, her black purse – in his and looking straight into her blue eyes. For once, he was completely serious. "I will take you anywhere _you_ want to go. More than anything, I want this evening to be special for you. If you want one of those really fancy restaurants with… oh, you know, like the candles and the classical music and the steaks that cost as much as Cadillacs," he grinned as Rosalie began to giggle, "then I'll take you there – as long as I can find the place. If you'd rather have something a little lower key, I know of a great little Pizza Hut not too far down the road. While they're cooking up something special for us, we can shoot pool or feed quarters into the Space Invaders machine and save the universe from alien invasions."

Rosalie gripped his hands, laughing wholeheartedly. Dewey warmed all over. Finally her eyes came back to his, and they looked shinier than normal.

"We'll have plenty of time to save the universe on another night, Dewey." She lowered her gaze and swallowed hard. "Let's eat here."

Dewey didn't know what to say. He'd never had a profound impact on anyone before – unless he had a guitar in his hands. To have moved Rosalie Mullins that way, particularly without a guitar, blew his mind.

"Okay," he managed. He jerked his head towards the restaurant. "Okay. C'mon."

He escorted her up to Butera's and remembered to open the door for her, and once she'd preceded him, he took his first step into the foreign world of fine dining. The textured walls were interspersed with panels of wood and colorful stone, and somehow – Dewey couldn't figure out how, exactly – they'd made some of the blue wall panels hover over the stone. Ambient lighting gleamed from both the ceilings and the walls. The cherry-wood chairs contrasted with cream tablecloths, and Dewey silently thanked the gods of Rock that the background music wasn't classical or, worse yet, some form of Italian opera. Dewey would have placed the music in the late 80s, maybe early 90s pop genre. He could deal with that.

A waiter, smartly dressed in a burgundy and white suit, stepped up to them. "Good evening, sir, madame. Do you have reservations?"

"Yup." Dewey made a careless gesture. "It's Finn with two Ns."

The waiter affected a polite smile and stepped aside. "Right this way."

Dewey grinned and rubbed his hands together. "Bring it on."

He let Rosalie walk ahead of him, and he followed her, staring around the restaurant with unabashed curiosity. The diners he passed glanced up at him, did a double take, and glared. Apparently they didn't appreciate being stared at. Dewey grinned and tossed a friendly stiff-handed wave in their direction.

They reached a table near the back, and Dewey plopped into his chair with a loud sigh and looked up at the elderly waiter, who placed plain paper menus in front of them.

"My name is Joshua, and I will be your waiter this evening," he monotoned, producing a notepad and a pen. "Would you care for something to drink." It wasn't a question.

Dewey glanced at Rosalie.

"Water to start," she replied, smiling.

"Same," added Dewey instantly.

With an affronted sniff that they hadn't ordered something more expensive right off the bat, the waiter tucked the notepad into his belt. "Right away."

Only when the waiter was gone did Rosalie give in to quiet laughter. "You are a very amusing man, Dewey Finn."

His eyebrows jumped. "Thanks, I think."

She giggled and picked up her menu. "We'd better pick out our order before he comes back. What are you having?"

Dewey puffed out his cheeks, then pursed his lips and made thoughtful clucking and clicking and sucking noises as he looked over his options. He was completely unaware of the disgusted glances from another couple seated three tables away.

"Oh, mmmm, let me see. Mmm, mmm, mmm. Shrimp, prawns, I don't know the difference. What's calamari?"

Rosalie choked down another laugh. "Squid."

Dewey made a face. "Do they serve _anything_ eatable here?"

Giggling, Rosalie dropped her menu and mashed her shapely fingers against her nose. "One would hope. It's a _restaurant_, Dewey."

Shaking his head, Dewey leaned backwards and eyed his menu warily. "Well I ain't touchin' the squid, and I'm looking for something in English. Whatever happened to a good old burger and fries?"

Rosalie was helpless to stifle a snort of mirth. "Do you like pasta?"

Dewey flipped around his menu so his date could see it, and he swept a hand in front of it with an exaggerated flourish. "The word 'pasta' is used at a heading. They don't even serve normal spaghetti here. Look at this." With a ridiculous debonair accent and even worse pronunciation, Dewey read through the options. "Rigatoni Marinara wizz our fresh marinara sauce-ay. Rigatoni and Broccoli in a garlic sauce-ay. Pan Baked Rigatoni tossed wizz marinara sauce-ay, ricotta and melted mozzarella. Rigatoni alla Vodka – ah! A familiar ingredient, at last!" He interrupted himself, speaking over the increased volume of Rosalie's laughter. Then he continued, "In a tomato cream sauce-ay, accented wizz bacon and prosci… procuzzi… proscee… what in the heck _is_ that?"

Incapacitated with laughter, Rosalie doubled over and buried her face in her hands. She couldn't answer.

Dewey flipped to the second page in the menu. "Aha! As if not serving burgers isn't enough, here's a heading for… Special Un-Burgers! I swear. Look." He showed her – or tried to; Rosalie's face was still buried in her hands and her shoulders were shaking. Dewey helpfully read it to her. "'Grilled Portobello Burger: Freshly grilled Portobello cap with melted fresh mozzarella and basil pesto on a toasted bun.' Whatever happened to a _beef patty_? According to this, there's a whole bunch of weird ingredients on a piece of bread and no burger whatsoever! And here's the other: 'Chicken Veggie Burger: Freshly ground chicken, diced zucchini, red peppers, carrot and onion, char grilled on a toasted bun.' I see why they're called Un-Burgers. They're not even close!"

"Stop! Please!"

Rosalie's weary cry came from somewhere in her folded arms, muffled against the tablecloth. When she finally gained enough composure to sit back in her chair, she removed her glasses and dabbed delicately at the corners of her eyes. Sniffling, she settled her glasses again and grinned at her outrageous companion.

"You're a trip, Dewey Finn."

Dewey leaned back against his chair, slouched comfortably to the left. "Ah, I try. At the moment, I'm starved, and I feel like I'm ordering food in a foreign country."

Rosalie tilted her head with a charming smile that did crazy things to Dewey's heart rate. "Maybe I can assist you."

"Or maybe I'll just make it easy and have whatever you're having."

Subtle color rose in her cheeks as she picked up her menu. "Okay, why don't we try…" She trailed off, scanning the pages. "We could split a Priazzo of the Day."

"What's that supposed to be?"

She grinned. "A pizza."

Dewey suddenly lurched forward and seized her hand, smothering it with kisses. "Grazie, grazie! You know what I like!" As she giggled, he lifted his gaze to the ceiling as if in gratitude to heaven.

The waiter returned with two loaves of bread placed on wooden cutting boards, and Dewey let Rosalie place their order.

"May I suggest a _speciale_ wine to compliment your order?" inquired Joshua. "We have a very fine—"

"Bring it on," interrupted Dewey. "Thanks, dude."

Dewey's forthright manner seemed to knock Joshua back on his heels for a moment. Blinking, he turned his attention to the notepad and scribbled briefly before flipping it shut.

"I will return with your order." He collected the menus, nodded to the couple and left.

"While we are waiting for The Ancient One to bring our food," said Dewey, leaning forward to saw a knife through his loaf of bread. He tore a big bite out of the first slice and chewed with his mouth open, then rolled his eyes back and groaned with satisfaction. "So hungry."

Rosalie gave him a quiet smile, then calmly removed her eyeglasses and wiped the lenses on her silk napkin. "While we are waiting for The Ancient One," she returned, gazing steadily at Dewey, "I was hoping you could tell me about your problem."

Dewey's eyes bulged, and he choked on his bread. He stared at Rosalie in dawning alarm. "What? This isn't about the after-school program, is it?"

She lowered her eyes demurely, studying her lenses. "You tell me. You said you had a matter you wanted to discuss over dinner. Or did you already solve it in a week's time?"

It took Dewey's brain nearly a full minute to start working again, and another half-minute to recall that he'd used "a matter he wanted to discuss" as an excuse to take her out to dinner. Never in a million years would he confess that to Rosalie, though. In addition to being a world-class goofball, he didn't want to also be considered a chicken in the eyes of this remarkable woman.

"Oh that." He set down the grisly remains of the bread and leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, I still need your help."

"Which of the kids is it? Freddy?"

Dewey grinned at Rosalie's guess. If one of the kids caused trouble, Freddy was the most likely candidate. "No, the kids are fine. The kids are great. This isn't about them, it's about Ned."

"Ned Schneebly?"

"The very same. Roommate, substitute teacher, best friend, assistant with the School of Rock program. Check."

"Hmm." With a very businesslike air, Rosalie slipped her glasses into place and perched them neatly on the bridge of her nose. "He hasn't been causing you trouble, has he?"

Dewey huffed, his mouth curved into a sideways smile. "Ned Scheebly _is_ trouble. Don't let the quiet, teacherish demeanor fool you. Why do you think he hangs with me? Actually, he hasn't done anything that should land him in detention, but it's… something else." Dewey shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

With an expression of deep and thoughtful sympathy, Rosalie frowned and pressed her fingertips together. "It seems very serious."

Dewey raised a dark eyebrow, then bobbed his head from side to side. "Kinda. It's… something I haven't talked to him about. Keep this to yourself, will you?"

Rosalie gave him a regal nod. "Of course."

Dewey paused and studied the woman, who was suddenly every inch the principal. She'd fallen so deeply into the role that he wondered… almost wondered… but no. Not possible. She was completely serious, regarding him with those all-knowing blue eyes that made Dewey feel as if she could read his mind. He endeavored to think only pure thoughts around her, but she could probably see all the way to his soul, too. There was little to be done about that.

"Right. Okay." Suddenly coming to a decision, Dewey leaned forward and clasped his hands over the fine tablecloth. "It's like this. Before Ned found out that I was, er, teaching under, uh, his name…"

"Deceptively," supplied Rosalie helpfully.

"Uh, yeah." Dewey winced. "Back in the days when I didn't… when I wasn't making… I mean sure, I was rooming with Ned, but he always put up with it, even when I couldn't come up with my share of—"

"You didn't have a job," put in Rosalie, frowning attentively.

Dewey shrugged and averted his gaze, toying idly with a fork. "Yeah, you might say that. Well, anyway, back then, Ned had a girlfriend. She works for the mayor."

Rosalie's delicate eyebrows arched. "Friends in high places," she remarked, impressed.

Dewey dropped the fork and scratched the back of his neck. "See, that's the trouble. She wasn't a friend. She was always sniping and sharp-tongued, and she hated my guts. She was a real—"

"Careful woman," interjected Rosalie smoothly with another of her polite, principal smiles. "Cautious, even."

Dewey rolled his eyes. "She got on my nerves, is the point. She got Ned off rock and roll and made him go straight, and she was working on me, too."

"Hmm, I see." Rosalie threaded her long fingers together, the very picture of concern. "So what happened?"

Dewey puffed out his cheeks. "Ned dumped her. He wanted to see the Battle of the Bands competition, and she snapped something – I don't remember what Ned said she said, now. Something nasty, which was exactly like her. Ned left the apartment – slammed the door in her face." Dewey couldn't hide a satisfied smirk at that. He still felt justice had been served.

"Hmm." Rosalie's frown deepened. Abruptly Dewey wondered if he'd imagined the quirk at the corner of her mouth, which disappeared as quickly as it formed. "So Ned's life has been happier since this girlfriend left the picture?"

"No, _my_ life has been happier since Patty left the picture. Ned doesn't see reason, though. At the School of Rock center, he's chipper enough. But at the apartment, it's a different story. Some days he's downright mopey, and he drags all over the place and stares out the window or looks this framed picture he has with him and Patty… I don't know where they took it. The park or something. And then, if I so much as mention her name, he goes all quiet." Dewey shook his head in disgust.

"I see the problem," sighed Rosalie gravely. "What do you intend to do about it?"

"I don't know. I really don't know." He raked his fingers through his black hair.

"I think you do."

Dewey's eyes snapped to hers, and this time he caught the twinkle of mischief lurking in her blue gaze. Suspicion narrowed his eyes. "Are you _messing_ with me?"

One of her hands came free and pressed against her mouth, but she made no real attempt to hide her brilliant smile – or her soft laugh. "After everything you put me through, Dewey Finn, you deserve it," she answered calmly. "You can expect a lot more in the way of payback from me."

Dewey's dark eyebrows snapped together, then jumped, then abruptly smoothed out. He shook his head, grinning. "If it means we'll spend more time together, then bring it on."

Something in Rosalie Mullins' expression softened, and this time, Dewey saw it. He held her steady gaze, and a sudden glimpse of the future opened up before him. The promise of months and years to come glimmered softly in her blue eyes.

Arrested by the sight, Dewey Finn didn't notice that the pizza had arrived until the waiter set the steaming plate in the middle of the table. He barely glanced at Joshua, then stared at the sizzling pizza without seeing it.

A loud pop brought him to his senses. Joshua had uncorked a bottle of red wine, and he poured the liquid into each of their tall glasses. As if from far away, Dewey heard Rosalie thanking Joshua as the waiter retreated.

_Get a grip, man._

If only the world would stop spinning for a moment! Dewey swallowed hard, found he had no appetite for pizza anymore, and looked up at Rosalie again.

She smiled at him and lifted her glass. "A toast?"

Dewey hesitated, then picked up his own glass. Ordinarily he would have balked at the idea of a toast, but suddenly he knew exactly what to say.

"To the future. And may rock live forever."

She laughed as she clinked her glass against his, and they drank.

"So." Rosalie set aside her glass and looked intently at him. "How do you plan to deal with Ned?"

"Two options." Now that the worst of the matter was behind them, Dewey plunged forward with alacrity. "Keep him busy and throw him a big birthday bash – his birthday's in three weeks, by the way – and wait until he forgets all about her—"

"Which isn't working," put in Rosalie, and this time her frown was genuine.

"Yeah, exactly. Or I can do something to get them back together."

"Why would you do that, Dewey?"

He scowled and folded his arms across his chest. "I dunno. I've been friends with Ned since high school, and he was never serious about a girl before Patty. She's insane, but Ned really liked her. I hate to think I blew his chance with her."

"So this is all about alleviating your own guilt, then?"

Dewey shrugged. "Maybe a little. I'm not used to feeling guilt."

"Maybe you should, on occasion," replied Rosalie. "Guilt – in moderation – can do a soul a lot of good."

Dewey huffed. "Whatever. I don't intend to go around feeling guilty about stuff. I just wanna see my best friend happy, that's all."

Rosalie suddenly removed her glasses and leaned forward, staring Dewey directly in the eyes. "You realize that could be a terrible mistake, don't you? From what you've told me of this woman, she could be completely furious and vengeful. She might want nothing to do with Ned."

Dewey's eyes lowered, but he only needed a moment to consider that. He looked up at Rosalie again, determination blazing through his eyes.

"We'll never know unless we try."

**Author's Note:** Butera's Italian Restaurant is a real dining establishment with (at least) three locations – one of them in Woodbury, New York. They have a fantastic menu which has gained Butera's an excellent reputation and, despite assertions to the contrary in the context of this story, their prices are very reasonable! You can look them up online, as they have a spectacular website with pictures of their charming dining areas.


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